You're Going Down
by an endless summer
Summary: Sandy's gone, Steve's gone, and Kathy's never really there. It's sick and it's wrong, but Soda and Two-Bit aren't about to let go of each other. Not for anything. Two-Bit/Soda slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **The Outsiders is property of S.E. Hinton. "You're Going Down" is by Sick Puppies. I own nothing :)

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You just don't know what to do with yourself. You've been dumped before, and you've been dumped by Kathy before. It's not any kind of big deal. If anything, it was to be expected; it's always to be expected because you're sure she just doesn't get you. Not the way a girlfriend should.

But then, most people don't get you. Kathy's not the only one. The people who understand where you're coming from are few and far between, and you kind of like it that way. It might piss Kathy off and have her dumping you every couple of months, but you don't mind.

"See ya in a few weeks, baby." It's all you need to say because even if she doesn't get you, you get her and you know she'll be back. She always comes back. If it's because she's weak, because she has no self-respect, you don't know. But she always comes back to you even though you always end up treating her like shit.

But when that thought runs through your mind - _she always comes back_ - it sounds bad and it makes you feel bad. Not for thinking less of Kathy, but because you're no fucking better. You always go back, you can't stay away, you have no fucking self-respect to be doing the things you're doing.

Kathy would never come back if she knew the truth.

Because it's wrong. Not in the kind of way that makes it better, hotter, but in the kind of way that really is just wrong. Wrong and dirty and so fucking painful.

Soda doesn't see it, though. He just gives you that easy grin, brown eyes bright with whatever gases he's been breathing in at work that day, and all you can do is stare back, fighting the urge to rip his head off. You want to rip it off, but even more so, you want to rip your own off. Rip it off and throw it to the dogs.

He's looking at you right now, and you raise an eyebrow, wishing for all the world that Stevie had never left. This would never have started if Steve was still around. But Steve isn't around and you don't want to think about it because it's tough, it's depressing, it's war. And it makes you sick.

You have a sick feeling that Steve's war is nothing compared to the one going on inside your head, your heart, your whole fucking life.

"Where ya been, buddy?" Soda asks you, and you shrug, not saying anything.

Sitting on the porch with him, you pull out your smokes and light up, inhaling deeply and not exhaling until the smoke begins to hurt your lungs. Only then do you huff out a breath, shoulders sagging. You want to go home. You want to go beg Kathy to take you back. You want to be able to look at your friend without thinking about how his lips taste.

But you can't do any of those things. All you can do is look at him and remember. No wondering, just remembering, because there's no need to wonder how Soda's lips taste when you already know. It's burned into your mind and you wouldn't have it any other way, really.

Soda's pretending like he doesn't know you're watching him, but he does. How can he not? You're sitting right next to him, head turned toward him, staring openly. Soda's used to people staring, though, and you suppose it doesn't bother him anymore.

The screen door behind you is shoved open before you can find anything worthy to say and you look out toward the road, pretending that the silence between you - the most talkative guy in the gang - and Soda - the most outgoing - is normal. It's not, but neither is anything else the two of you do.

"Hey, Two-Bit," the kid says.

You look up and watch Pony and Curly Shepard step around you and down the stairs.

"Where ya headin', kid?"

Hands shoved in pockets, Pony looks at you. "Drive-in. Wanna come?"

_Yes, yes, yes!_

You shake your head and take another drag of your cigarette, noticing how much of it you've wasted and let burn through. You flick, letting the string of ashes fall to the ground.

"Have fun, Pone," Soda says quietly, and you can practically hear the sex in his voice as he urges his brother to leave him alone in your company.

Not that there will actually be any sex. Everything but; them's the rules and you're not complaining. Sex is sex and sex isn't where you're willing to go. Gasping moans, bucking hips, and sweaty sheets on the other hand …

Ponyboy and Curly take off down the street, and you watch them, feeling more than a little sick. If the kid knew - if anyone knew - it'd be the end of your existence. This kind of thing doesn't happen and that thought alone makes you fight the urge to throw up last night's dinner every time you have it. Which is often.

But really, you always feel sick because it _is_ sick. It's sick when your lips crash quietly together in the bathroom at Buck's. It's sick when he's sitting between you and Pony on the couch and you get hot just from the feel of his denim-clad thigh against yours. And it's so fucking sick when you drop your girlfriend off after a heavy make-out session before coming around here to see Soda.

It's sick and it's wrong and it hurts because you can't stop. You need it like you need air and it scares the shit out of you.

It's not a habit or a routine, but it's something you can't stop. There's no set time or date for when it happens, it just does. When you leave his bedroom, sickened yet satisfied, you don't know when it's going to happen again. All you know is that once that ache begins in your chest, growing until your whole body is in pain, burning and screaming for him, you have to see him, you have to have him.

You've never met a girl who wasn't taken by Soda in some way, but you always figured you'd be immune.

That turned out to be bullshit when Soda found himself in the starring role of your shower fantasies one night. Though _found himself_ isn't quite the right phrase when you placed him front and center yourself. Blame it on the alcohol, blame it on Steve having left only hours before - fuck, blame it on the storm that had been closing in on you or that fucking dog across the street that wouldn't shut up. All you know is that you did what needed to be done to relieve _that_ ache. And you were thinking about your buddy the whole time.

The taste of bile you've had in your throat ever since isn't something you can pretend isn't there.

The sky's turning a strange purple color and some idiot down the street's started playing an old Chuck Berry song that, unsurprisingly, has you thinking about Johnny. And if something has you thinking about Johnny, then you start thinking about Dallas and you half wish he was around just so he could kick your damn head in.

If anyone could've kicked the sick pervert out of you, it would have been Dally.

"Two-Bit?"

You blink, look at the cigarette in your hand, and toss away the butt. It's basically a waste of a whole damn smoke when you only got a couple of drags out of it, but those few drags had helped. Your mind is still a mess of Soda and filth and everything but sex, but you feel better. Slightly less sick.

Soda's staring at you, and you slowly meet his gaze.

"Wanna come inside, man?" he asks.

Icy fingers grab at your insides. There's no secret code in that one. He wants you to go inside. He wants you to kiss him, touch him, taste him. He wants you to be with him. And you want to. You especially want to be with him, and that's why it hurts. And that's why it scares you. That's why you need it.

It's sick. Soda's sick. But you need them both.

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**A/N:** Thanks to the other half of this penname for her amazing help.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** S.E. Hinton owns _The Outsiders_.

**Thanks to the other half of this penname for being awesome.**

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You're dying. Not literally, of course, but you think you could very well be drowning. You gasp through your tight chest as a sea of hands, tongues, and nails surround you, suffocate you, kill you.

And Christ, you love it.

Two-Bit's tongue is somewhere it shouldn't be and you wonder when you became so okay with this. Not just you-and-him this, but guys-being-with-other-guys this. Neither is right, neither is normal, but you don't care. You want it, you like it, you need it.

You're not ever going to give it up.

How could you? It feels so damn good and everyone else can go to hell because it makes you happy. It shouldn't, but it does. And that's that. After everything that's happened, you deserve a little happiness. You deserve this, and you're not going to let anyone end it for you. If that means keeping it in a locked chest that only you and Two-Bit have the key to, then so be it.

You only have three people left in the world, and there's no way you're letting go of any of them. You'll take everything you can get from them, and you're pretty sure they feel the same way. Maybe that's why this happened. Darry and Ponyboy are your brothers and you love them more than anything … except maybe this _thing_ you have with Two-Bit.

You wonder if maybe _that's_ why this thing started.

You, Darry, and Pony are as close as you can be; you're brothers, always will be. It was only natural for you and Two-Bit to become as close as you can be, too. You're pretty sure neither of you expected _close_ to become … _this_, but you're beyond caring.

Because you deserve this.

Your parents are dead; have been for years now, but it still hurts. It's not surprising - they are your parents and they died far too young. When you think about it, they're probably the only people you'd give this thing with Two-Bit up for, but that can't happen. Because they're dead. You haven't had parents since you were sixteen; you deserve Two-Bit.

Sandy left you; you've convinced yourself you don't care anymore, but you sure did love her. It hurt like a bitch when she left. And then Johnny and Dallas died. Your parents, your girl, your buddies … how much could one guy take?

Apparently just that little bit more, though, because God didn't seem to give two shits about sending your buddy - your best fucking friend - away to war.

That had been it. Steve was gone. And who the fuck knows whether he's going to come back in his usual cloud of smoke and moodiness or in a goddamn wooden box? That and everything that went with it made you pull everything closer. It's why when Two-Bit became uncomfortable around you, you used it to your advantage.

Screw letting him get over whatever shit he was going through. You took what seemed to be a crush and turned it into more.

Two-Bit's tongue is doing that thing you love so much, and you see white. Your hips buck, your fingers dig into the sheets beneath you, and a strangled moan escapes you before your whole body dissolves into the kind of mess only Two-Bit can make.

He nips at your hip and you know he knows you like it. A mix of pleasure and pain shoots right up your spine, sending another shudder through you.

"Stop," you mutter, giving a half-assed push at his head.

He stops, but doesn't move away. Resting his head on your abdomen, he slides his hands under your lower back - you'd call it a hug if you didn't know any better - and nuzzles his nose into your stomach. You don't mind. You like it, really.

It's a few minutes before either of you say anything, and when Two-Bit finally speaks, you're not surprised by what he says, you're just surprised it's taken this long to happen.

"I'm gonna talk to Kathy tomorrow."

You're not surprised, but you're not exactly pleased either. It's not like you want anything official or exclusive - you had a date with that cute girl from the grocery store just last night - but you do want Two-Bit all to yourself.

The idea of Kathy - anyone - touching him, kissing him, running their hands through his hair the way you are sends a surge of possessiveness you've only experienced with Two-Bit coursing through you. You don't want him with anyone else - you don't want him to want anyone else.

Call it selfish, call it sinful, call it sicker than anything else in this messed-up world, but he's yours and you don't want to share him with anyone. Especially not Kathy. Because Kathy is your only real threat. She's the only one who could possibly take him away from you.

They might break up too often to be a real, functional couple, but she's the closest Two-Bit's ever gotten to a steady girlfriend and you hate her for that. You're not sure you've ever hated before, but anytime Two-Bit mentions her name - whether they're together at the time or not - you feel nothing but hatred for the poor girl who's really done nothing wrong.

"Whaddya you gonna talk to her about?" you ask, all the while feeling a strange urge to rip the girl's eyes out.

You smirk; that wouldn't do any good.

Two-Bit moves up the bed to lie next to you and you can feel him against you. It appears that what you consider mood-killing conversation hasn't killed his mood at all.

"See if she'll let me take her out." His head is resting next to yours and you know he's staring.

"Think she will?" It takes everything you have to not sound bitter, spit out the words, call her a whore.

She's a nice girl, really.

Two-Bit shrugs, shifting slightly and pressing against you. "She usually does."

You say nothing. It's true; Kathy always takes Two-Bit back eventually. It shouldn't worry you so much, really, because it never stops Two-Bit from coming to you. He always comes to you. You don't know why it's different for him, but somehow Kathy just isn't enough.

It makes you feel better. Kathy isn't enough and he dumps her just as often as she dumps him. But he never dumps you. He comes to you, he wants you. You know it's true, just as well as you know he needs you. You're like the goddamn blood that runs through his veins, and you shouldn't take such a sadistic pleasure in the powerful feeling it gives you, but you do.

He's yours. Unlike you, he still feels bad about what you're doing; you can see it just by looking at him. But like you, he wants this too much to let it stop. He's yours and it's going to stay that way because you deserve him.

Forgetting about your hatred for Kathy, you grin at Two-Bit and shift your hand lower, not missing the way his breath catches. You like that you can do this too him - it just adds to that powerful feeling. You started this, you talked him into it, and you practically fucking seduced him into touching you that first time.

He's been yours since, and you're never going to let him go.

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**Reviews are appreciated.**


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